


the dog days are over

by futuredescending



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Awkwardness, Dog puns, Dogs, First Dates, M/M, Ridiculousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-27
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-09-12 16:44:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9080968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futuredescending/pseuds/futuredescending
Summary: Eggsy Unwin has himself a date with Harry Hart. A real date. It’s going to be the best fucking date of Harry’s life.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Galahard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galahard/gifts), [missbecky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbecky/gifts).



> Combining a Murphy's Law first date/first date in a long time prompt for Galahard & missbecky. It's one of the most ridiculous things I've ever written, but I couldn't resist.

Eggsy supposes their relationship was bound to be doomed from the start. Its beginnings had hardly been conventional, after all:

Bereft of their access to Merlin and Kingsman weapons, hog-tied, and blindfolded in the back of a windowless van being driven by men from one of London’s most notorious gangs to what was probably going to be their swift execution and water burial in the Thames, Eggsy had finally found his do-or-die courage.

“So, if we get out of this alive, how would you feel about going on a date some time?” He can’t see Harry’s expression, but that’s probably a good thing. Harry’s quiet for too long. “Or, you know what? Forget I said anything. Anyway, it’s probably not going to matter soon as we’re about to be—”

“Yes.”

Eggsy stops his babbling. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Harry repeats.

That doesn’t clear things up at all. “Yes, as in, yes to the date, or yes as in, yes, we’re both soon going to die so let’s agree to sweep this one under the rug, shall we?”

He can almost hear Harry rolling his eyes. “Yes to the date, Eggsy. We’re not dying anytime soon.”

“Oh,” Eggsy says. How about that? “That’s...well that’s great. About the date. And the not dying bit too, I suppose. Excuse me, how are we not dying though?”

This time, Harry’s long pause is one of distinct hesitation. “I have a knife strapped to my inner thigh they missed when searching us, probably because it’s rather close to my....”

“ _Okay_.” Eggsy stops him right there, not because he doesn’t want to imagine it, but because he really, really does. He’s also not going to think about why Harry carries very sharp objects so close to his junk. “So you need me to open up your trousers and fetch it, got it. Right.” The task before him dawns clear and true. “Right.”

One bout of heroic flexibility, accidentally inappropriate fondling, and a great amount of restraint being exhibited in Eggsy _not_ saying, _is that a knife in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?_ later, the gang members open up the back of the van and get the surprise of their lives, which admittedly don’t last very long thereafter.

And Eggsy Unwin has himself a date with Harry Hart. A real date. It’s going to be the best fucking date of Harry’s life.

 

_____

 

The date is going terribly.

Worst of all, it’s Eggsy’s fault.

He’d figured Harry Hart, gentleman supreme and man of discerning taste, would go for fine wining and dining, and Eggsy had pulled a few strings and called in a few favours to snag a last minute reservation at one of them exclusive French Michelin star places that only served three items on the menu and didn’t include the prices of anything. There is candlelight, pristine white tablecloths, snooty waiters and everything.

But Harry looks...for lack of a better word, _bored_. Eggsy knows he is because, well, the feeling is mutual.

The food turns out to be mediocre and lukewarm. The wine’s starting to give him a headache, or maybe it’s all the squinting he’s had to do to even make out Harry’s features across the table in the ridiculously dark restaurant that obviously took the candlelight thing a little too far.

But the worst of it is that they can’t seem to make things click like they used to, like they always do at Kingsman or on missions, where the feeling is easy and the repartee is quick and free flowing.

“How’s the chicken?” Eggsy asks.

“It’s fish. It’s…” Eggsy can see the struggle on Harry’s face as he tries to find the right words and fails. “...fine. How’s yours?”

“So I think I accidentally ordered the fish.” The whole menu was in fucking French, so Eggsy decided to not embarrass himself by butchering the pronunciation and just pointed at what he thought had been the right thing. Poisson, poulet. Whoops. “Which...explains a lot actually.”

“Ah.” Harry tries to nod sympathetically, like Eggsy isn’t actually an idiot and this sort of thing happens all the time.

“Yeah.”

It’s supposed to be romantic. Eggsy is supposed to be witty and charming and use this time as a way to get to know Harry better outside of their work. There isn’t supposed to be this weird tension between them, the way all their stilted conversations are about as fun as someone pulling out his toenails. 

“Have you ever been to France?” Eggsy desperately asks after spending several panicked moments trying to think of an appropriate conversation topic that would fit their formal setting. They’ve already touched upon their food, the weather, football, and the traffic.

“Many times,” Harry says, then slowly adds, “We were both on that Marseilles mission three months ago.”

Eggsy laughs, trying to make it seem playful rather than humiliating. “Oh, that’s right. There’s been so many since then, it all tends to...blur together.”

Hell, they were both trained spies who knew how to make small talk. They were supposed to be able to seduce a rock if need be. The fact they couldn’t seem to make this work was...disappointing. Fateful. _Tragic_. As if maybe they weren’t meant to tbe.

Confronted with this looming prospect, Eggsy picks up his still full wine glass, empties it in four swallows, and sets it back down with a thunk. “I’m going to use the loo,” he declares before abruptly pushing back his chair to flee the table.

He’s not hiding, thank you very much. He’s just...re-thinking his battle strategy a bit. He washes his hands, pats down his face, and gives himself a good, hard look in the mirror. “You can make this work,” he tells himself.

With a firm nod, he leaves the toilet only to have his attention dragged to the open back door of the restaurant when he hears a woman shouting for help.

Eggsy immediately launches himself out the door into a back alley, finding the woman sprawled on the ground, a rivulet of blood running down her temple. “What happened?” he asks, helping her to her feet.

“A man stole my Lily!” the woman cries, pointing towards the mouth of the alley. “Shoved me to the ground and just ran off with her! That man stole my baby!”

So he may not have any of his Kingsman accessories or gun on him (it was supposed to just be a date, for Christ’s sake, that’ll teach him), but that doesn’t stop Eggsy’s need to right a wrong. With her shrill cries still ringing in his ears, he takes off at a run, reaching the end of the alley and glancing both ways down the street to see a man hurrying down the pavement, struggling to drag a recalcitrant golden retriever after him.

Eggsy hovers, uncertain, but on a hunch, tentatively calls out, “Lily?”

The dog’s furry ears perk and she turns her head in his direction, yanking on her lead to run back to him, whimpering pitifully.

The man throws an annoyed look at him and hastens his pace into a jog, heading towards a van whose side door opens to reveal a whole group of masked men with several nasty looking guns.

“Oh, fuck me.”

Most people would be turning tail in retreat and surely that’s what the men are expecting him to do, maybe even counting on, which is why their reactions are understandably delayed when Eggsy doubles down on his sprint in their direction, bounding off a fire hydrant to gain an extra lift, and flattening the dognapper to the ground when his feet plant themselves forcefully on his shoulders from behind. He ends in a steadying (and rather heroic looking, if only someone could take his picture, but no, that would be bad and Merlin would have to remotely erase it, shame) crouch before he glares up at the rest of the stupefied men in the van and leaping into it.

Four on one. It’s hardly a fair fight in such close quarters, but soon Eggsy has them all nicely lined up unconscious on the pavement before he realises that Lily’s gone and done a runner.

“ _Shit_.”

He retraces his steps, calling out for the bloody dog, only to turn the corner back into the alley he’d come from to see pet and owner lovingly reunited.

It’s a relief that doesn’t last for long, however, when he feels the hot burn of a bullet grazing his cheek and embedding itself into the brick wall by his head. Eggsy ducks, turning to find the original dognapper having recovered most of his wits, now armed and mightily pissed.

“Come on!” Eggsy ushers the woman and the dog back towards the restaurant, Lily happily barking and trotting through the door into the main dining area if the sudden cries of surprise that rise up from the other diners are any indication.

Harry is almost immediately at his side when Eggsy is soon to follow. “Man with a gun not far behind me, he’s—”

He doesn’t even have time to finish before Harry’s grabbed one of the steak knives off the closest table (whose occupants were none too pleased) and flung it over Eggsy’s shoulder, causing Eggsy to flinch, but when he turns, he finds the dognapper now pinned to the wall with the knife gruesomely jutting out of his palm, his gun having fallen from his now injured hand onto the floor.

Eggsy can’t help but be impressed, as he always is when he gets to witness Harry’s lethal grace in action. “Nice.”

Harry preens.

 

_____

 

After the men are all secured and Lily’s owner, Marissa Whitcombe, confirms that she doesn’t recognise any of them nor has any idea as to why they’d try to nick her dog (“Well, she is like a daughter to me!” she admits), they place a call to Merlin.

“Only you two would get into trouble on a date,” Merlin grumbles over the phone, not exactly pleased to have to do unexpected clean up duty at a civilian establishment. “Over a dog, of all bloody things.”

“Are you forgetting the part where I said they got really big guns?” Eggsy glares at the phone like he could transmit his displeasure over the line. “Something far bigger’s going on here.”

“Which is no longer your concern. The two of you need to leave the scene immediately. I’ll have my team analyse the van and interrogate the assailants. We’ve got it covered.”

When Eggsy looks up, Harry seems to be more or less on the same page. He’s already climbing into the driver’s seat of the van to look for clues. There’d been nothing overly telling in the back save for a large wire crate. Some sort of ransom scheme? Marissa was in civil service, and while prudent with her savings, couldn’t exactly be determined as worth all the trouble.

“There’s an address programmed into the satnav,” Harry calls out.

“Oh no,” Merlin tries. “Don’t you dare—”

“So we’re gonna go see what’s up,” Eggsy says.

“You are, under no circumstances, to pursue this, Gawain. And you can tell Galahad he’s a jobby scrote bastard if he even so much as thinks….”

“We’ll let you know if we need back up. Gawain out.” Eggsy hangs up on a string of increasingly unintelligible cursing.

Harry leans an elbow on the wheel and smirks at him. “Looks like their operations are in Hackney. Interested in a drive?”

Eggsy grins. “Lead on, maestro,” he says, swinging himself into the passenger seat.

 

_____

 

In the van en route, Harry wordlessly holds out a handkerchief, and upon Eggsy’s puzzled look, says, “For your cheek.”

At first, Eggsy thinks Harry’s making some sort of joke about his supposed insouciance, but as he starts to smile, a painful tug on his actual cheek causes him to wince. He gingerly touches his wound; he’d forgotten about it, but a steady trickle of blood has been seeping from the gash. He takes the handkerchief and mops it up the best he can.

“Do you think it will scar?” Eggsy asks. Not that he’s vain, but he’s already got one along his brow. One can be considered rakish, two is starting to edge into hired henchman territory.

“Not likely,” Harry says after a moment or two to assess the damage before returning his eyes to the road. “If you’re worried about your appearance, you needn’t. You’ll look very comely either way.”

Eggsy can’t help but beam, touched.

 

_____

 

They pull up to a brick building that’s clearly seen better days and nearly looks abandoned, which sets off Eggsy’s internal alarms. The whole setup smacks of some sort of underground ring, perhaps drugs or weapons or, and the very thought is sickening, humans.

A thread of uncertainty worms its way into Eggsy’s resolve. “Maybe we should wait for backup.”

“Let’s just do a bit of reconnaissance first,” Harry suggests. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

They scale up the fire escape to climb into a window that’s missing its glass panes, finding themselves in a dusty, disused office if the cheap, worn down office furniture and truly ancient computers were anything by which to judge.

Harry presses his ear to the door for several moments before shaking his head. It takes a bit of force to pry the thing open; they make more noise than Eggsy’s comfortable with, but the equally bland hallway into which they emerge is empty. In fact, there’s a distinct sense of neglect to the entire floor.

There’s nothing for it, they’ve got to go down.

When they get to the back stairwell, they hear plenty of activity happening on the ground floor, gruff shouts, clanging metal, and...barking?

Lots and lots of barking.

Eggsy frowns as Harry slowly opens the door just a sliver. The sight that greets them leaves them both stunned.

Dogs. Dogs _everywhere_.

A whole floor of _dogs_. There must be over a hundred of them, of all breeds, colours, and sizes. Cocker Spaniels, terriers, labradors, German Shepherds, poodles, huskies, corgis, boxers, and just plain old mutts. There’s even a Great Dane. They’ve been allowed free range across the entire open floor, which they do in frolicking, blissfully unaware manner.

“Holy shit, it’s an underground puppy ring!” Eggsy whispers. Well, maybe more than whispers. He’s getting a bit carried away with excitement. Anyway, it hardly matters as his voice is drowned out by all the dogs.

“I can’t tell if this is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever witnessed in my life,” Harry admits once he reclaims his wits.

“No, but it’s the most _awesome_!” Eggsy insists. “A puppy problem! A canine caper!”

Harry gives him a sidelong look. “I think this is something we can take care of on our own, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. No need for the Muttropolitan Police on this one,” Eggsy says, entirely straight faced.

Harry sighs. “Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of the night?”

“Are you saying my puns are _pawful_?”

So, as it turns out, fighting a bunch of dog traffickers amidst a moving sea of dogs is more challenging than anticipated. It’s difficult not to get tripped up by the small ones and then the dogs think they’re all just _playing_ and try to join in, inadvertently tackling several of the men, but Harry and Eggsy as well. The Great Dane sure packs a wallop that knocks Harry over like a felled tree.

Suffice to say, it’s probably the least dignified dogfight Eggsy’s ever been engaged in, and no one comes out looking too good for it, not even Harry, whose usual elegant long-ranged movements are rather hampered by several furry creatures pouncing on him, but finally they have all the dognappers rounded up and secured, even if their formerly fine dining wear is now soaked in doggy slobber and covered in fur.

At least there are no recordings of the incident.

 

_____

 

When Merlin shows up at the scene, he’s less than impressed by their victory.

“One hundred and sixty-eight dogs.” His voice is strangled with incredulity. Eggsy didn’t know his face could contort like that. “To be identified and hopefully returned to their owners. But until then, what the bloody hell are we supposed to do with them? No shelters are open now, nor could they handle this many dogs at once even if they were.”

The answer, apparently, is to transport the dogs back to Kingsman across several vans and taxis, forming a long line of cars moving through the city.

Harry and Eggsy get stuck in the taxi with a Shitzu, a Chow Chow, a Labradoodle, a Puggle, three Pomeranians, and a little ragged Jack Russell, which Harry’s taken a particular liking to. The dogs crawl all over them in overexcited attempts to look out the windows. The smell will probably take some major fumigation to be entirely rid of.

“A canine caravan,” Eggsy announces, all too pleased with himself, even though he has to spit out a mouthful of Chow Chow fur as it had decided Eggsy’s lap was an appropriate place on which to sit.

Harry finally allows a small, amused smile to curve the corners of his mouth and gives the little terrier in his lap a fond stroke.

And just like that, it all feels easy again.

“Why can’t it be like this when we’re doing something normal?” Eggsy asks, his good spirits threatening to evaporate.

Harry looks at him like the answer is obvious. “My dear, we’re spies masquerading as Savile Row tailors who just broke up a dog trafficking ring. When have we ever been normal?”

Alright, so he has a point.

And as if to emphasise said point, Harry leans across the yipping Poms and captures his lips in a heated kiss, Chow Chow fluff and all.

“Harry Hart, you dirty dog, you,” Eggsy breathlessly says when they finally part. “I hope your bite’s as big as your bark.”

“Only if you want it a bit _ruff_ ,” Harry finally concedes to Eggsy’s everlasting delight.

So they can’t do normal very well, but as Eggsy basks in Harry’s fond gaze that warms him to the ends of his toes (or possibly that’s just the Labradoodle who’s fallen asleep on his feet), they may be alright after all.


End file.
